


Roofied

by Sarren



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Gay Bar, M/M, Supernatural Elements, sex pollen trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 06:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15455106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Emerson has to rescue DI Chandler from a gay club. He's under the influence of something.





	Roofied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> All gratefulness to mmost for Britpick/characterisation check and zebra363 for SPaG.

His phone buzzes insistently. Emerson’s determined to ignore it, resenting the way the dream slips from his consciousness with each buzz, the sensation of a warm muscular body wrapped around his dissipating, leaving him strangely cold, despite the warm cocoon of the duvet wrapped around him.

The buzzing stopped; voicemail’s picked up. Emerson closes his eyes again.

The phone buzzes again. Whoever’s calling is determined. Emerson rolls over and grabs his phone off the side table, blinking blearily at the caller display, only to sit up abruptly, all traces of sleepiness gone as he swipes to accept the call.

“Kent here,” he says, pulse jumping because it’s arse o’clock in the morning and neither of them are on call this week. “Everything all right, boss?”

For a long moment there’s silence and Kent actually wonders if Chandler’s somehow butt-dialled him and then he hears it. Breathing, laboured, and then a sound that sounds suspiciously like a moan, and Kent’s kicking off the covers, heart racing as he sits up, fumbling for the bedside lamp’s switch with one hand as he clutches the phone tight to his ear with the other.

“Boss?” he says. “DI Chandler?”

Another moan, choked off. Emerson’s scrabbling for clothes now, and his hand is shaking, he realises. “Joe,” he says urgently, “Joe, talk to me, where are you? What’s wrong?” Distantly, it occurs to him that the DI’s not going to appreciate the familiarity, for all that he’s not as uptight about rank as he once was, but Emerson can’t bring himself to worry about that now. Joe can dress him down as much as he wants, give him a written reprimand—hell, drum him out of the service—as long as he’s all right.

Still no answer, but Emerson can hear him breathing. He’s got the phone pressed to his ear, his shoulder hunched as he awkwardly pulls up his jeans and pushes his feet into his trainers. “Joe,” he tries once more, and he’s about to put him on hold to call it in when Joe speaks.

“Emerson,” he says, and the way he says it… the way he says it, drawn out and breathy. Emerson’s dreamed of Chandler saying his name like that. Not like this though—he must be injured. God, what if he’s dying. Emerson’s stomach feels sick with shame even as he takes a deep breath to stave off the panic that threatens to rise at the thought of anything happening to Chandler.

“Joe, talk to me, are you injured?”

“’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Can you come and get me?”

“Of course. Where are you?”

There’s silence again, rustling sounds and creaking and a metallic clicking sound, familiar-sounding. “Joe?”

“Sorry, I’m at the Red Lion. In the loo.”

“The one in Islington?” And then, before he can bite the words back: “The gay pub?”

“Yes.”

Emerson’s taking the steps three at a time, the wood thudding at the impact and he spares a thought for his flatmates. But he stops when he gets to the bottom, his phone pressed to his ear as the penny drops. The clicking sound. “You’ve locked yourself in one of the stalls, haven’t you?”

Chandler’s voice is hushed. “Yes.”

“Are you in danger? Do you need back up?”

“Yes, no. No police.”

 _We are the police,_ Emerson thinks wildly, as he grabs his keys. He lets himself out the flat, just remembering to close the heavy door behind him quietly, on the off chance he hasn’t managed to wake his housemates already.

Whatever’s going on, the DI’s clearly not himself. Emerson knows he should call it in, but there’s something in Chandler’s voice…. “Sir,” he says, and then clears his throat. “Joe,” he says firmly. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I feel strange,” Chandler says. “I can’t think….”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Don’t move, okay. Keep the door locked. I’m on my way.”

“All right,” Chandler says agreeably. “Emerson?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“Emerson,” Chandler says, and it sounds like a sigh.

 

Emerson’s been to the Red Lion a couple of times, years ago, back when he was with Ian, who’d been older and not into partying. There’s a giant Pride flag over the entrance, which mostly discourages the straights, but other than that it’s basically your average corner pub where punters can get a pint and a decent pub meal and hear themselves talk. Admittedly there’s a dance floor out the back, through an unmarked door, where things get a bit more old school and Emerson barges on through it, barely noticing any amorous goings on around him.

He bursts into the men’s bathroom, pulse racing. He’s poised for a fight if some perv has got Chandler cornered, but there’s only a couple of sweaty, mostly naked men fucking against the wall. Emerson blinks at the sight, because that’s a little hardcore for this venue, unless things have changed a lot since he was last here. But then he’s scanning the stalls; the one at the end is the only one with the door closed. Emerson raps his knuckles against it. “Joe?” The inappropriateness of his addressing his boss by his given name makes him wince but addressing him formally might invite attention (or perhaps not, but Emerson’s not willing to risk it).

There’s the sound of the door being unlocked, but it doesn’t open by itself, so Emerson pushes it open to find his boss sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on his knees, head sunk into his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair.

“Sir?”

Chandler doesn’t look up. The only sign he’s even heard him is the brief cessation of the convulsive movement of his hands. A moment later he’s tugging on his hair again.

Emerson crouches in front of him and, his heart in his throat, reaches up to cover Chandler’s hands with his own, wondering what he’ll do if Chandler continues to ignore him. Relief catches in his throat as Chandler’s fingers move under his own, releasing his grip on his hair and turning to tangle their fingers together. Emerson draws their joined hands down between them, as Chandler finally looks up and meets his eyes.

What the hell? Emerson’d been expecting confusion, lack of focus, perhaps even drowsiness. Whatever drug Chandler has ingested appears to have had the opposite effect. He’s flushed, sweat beading his hairline and temples and his eyes, his eyes are burning, his pupils dilated.

“You’re really here,” Chandler breathes, a hint of a question in his tone, and he’s looking at Emerson as though Emerson is his saviour.

God, between the way he’s devouring Emerson with his eyes, and his bedroom voice, Emerson’s getting hard, he can’t help it, even though he has no idea what’s going on here, except that Chandler’s clearly not in his right mind. He swallows hard. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, no hospital.” Chandler clutches his arm. Emerson fancies he can feel the heat of his fingers through his jacket.

“You’re on something. You need to get checked out.”

“No hospital.”

“Sir.”

“It’s not physical, I don’t think,” Chandler says. “Can’t you feel it?”

The itch at the back of Emerson’s neck that he’d attributed to his unease with Chandler’s situation grows stronger and now it’s not just his neck. As though drawing attention to it has given it power, given it a way in, now Emerson’s conscious of an energy in the air, almost like a miasma, vibrating and lustful and, terrifyingly, alive.

Jesus. Not another freaking horror show. Maybe they really are cursed. Arousal seeps through him, through his skin, sinking into his blood, sweeping through his body in a way which feels organic and yet alien. Even as he thinks that, the sensation of wrongness is fading. Emerson forces himself to remain still instead of leaning forward to take Joe into his arms, to kiss him, to sink into him until they’re only one being. He clings to that wrongness, to the thought that no matter how much _he_ wants this, Joe doesn’t, not really, Joe will hate him afterwards. Joe called him. Joe is counting on him to be strong, to save him. It’s that thought that gives him the strength to stand up, to pull Joe up with him. “Come on, sir,” he says, steadily. “Let’s get you home.”

 

 

It’s stronger out here. Invisible fingers trail through Joe’s hair, caress his shoulders and rub his nipples. Joe bites down hard on his tongue at the impossible, unmistakeable sensation of a wet mouth sliding down his cock. He can’t help the groan that escapes him. Kent glances back at him. He looks worried. Even a bit afraid. Joe doesn’t blame him. Joe should be stronger than this; Joe should be able to resist whatever this compulsion is. He’s spent his entire adult life ignoring his baser impulses, never allowing his libido to dictate his actions, and for the most part it’s not been difficult, with his various issues, but now, now he doesn’t care about any of that.

Kent’s got one hand firmly wrapped around his, pulling him along as he picks his way around the various couples and even groups engaged in _coitus._ Under the strobe lighting Joe catches flashes of men engaged in fellatio, their faces transported like those renaissance paintings of people in religious ecstasy, of men knelt on all fours or bent over tables, vigorously fucking or being fucked. In the back of his mind Joe knows that he should be alarmed, that ordinarily he would find this orgy of flesh repulsive—not a condom or antibacterial wipe anywhere to be seen—but right now he doesn’t care. He’s feverish with lust; the sensation of the mouth on his cock has gone, but he’s still hard, still fighting the urge to sink his cock into something... anything.

His other hand is grabbed and held tight. Joe stops and makes the mistake of looking down at the man who’s got hold of him. It’s Angelo, the attractive twenty-something bartender who always flirts with him, but in a cheerfully impersonal way, who understands that Joe’s just there for a quiet drink before he heads home. Angelo’s anything but impersonal now. He’s naked and covered in sweat and come and he’s tugging Joe towards him. Joe’s hands are sweaty. The one clutching Kent’s starts to slip free of Kent’s hold and his knees loosen; he starts to let himself sink down.

But then Kent’s there, grabbing both their wrists, pulling their hands apart. Kent’s got his arm around Joe, their bodies flush against each other as Kent steadies him. Kent’s hard too. Joe stares at him in wonder. Kent’s not looking at him though, Kent’s glaring down at Angelo, his brows drawn together, his dark eyes flashing. Angelo makes a movement as though he’s about to get up, to challenge Kent, and Kent turns and puts one booted foot against Angelo’s chest and pushes hard. “Get the fuck away from him,” Kent snarls, and Angelo falls away into darkness.

Kent turns back to him, cradles Joe’s jaw with one hand. “Are you all right, sir?” he says, and he sounds anxious now. Joe forgets about Angelo, because this is Kent. His Kent, with his beautiful hazel eyes that follow Chandler around the office, Kent who goes above and beyond to help him solve cases, who takes care of him, whose dark glossy curls Joe’s more than once had to resist the urge to run his fingers through. Now he can’t remember why he resisted. He reaches up and slides his fingers through Kent’s hair. The curls sliding through his fingers are just as soft as he’d imagined. He watches, rapt, as Kent’s eyes close and his lips part as he leans into Joe’s caress.

Joe presses his lips to Kent’s. It feels odd for a moment; he’s never been the one to make the first move before. It’s not as frightening as he’d imagined because this feels right, inevitable, the two of them. They’ve been heading towards this for years; he’s just sorry it’s taken this long. So when Kent melts against him, shuddering, and kisses him back, fervently, Joe lets go of the last vestiges of resistance, lets the nagging voice in the back of his mind fade away.

The invisible mouth around his cock is back, curiously gentle and unhurried, as though it’s in no hurry to get him off and he welcomes it. He’s surrounded by Kent, the smell of his cologne, the pressure of his fingers clutching his waist, it’s all one. Even as that thought crosses his mind the sensation changes, wet fingers sliding behind his scrotum, probing, circling, igniting the nerve endings there; he’d never imagined… “Yes,” he breathes against Kent’s lips. “Please.”

“Yes,” Kent agrees, but a moment later he’s drawing back, staring at Joe with an odd expression of suspicion. “Sorry, what?” he says.

Joe reaches for him, but Kent stops him with a firm hand on the chest. Joe looks down at the hand. It would be easy to brush it aside and he thinks Kent wouldn’t try very hard to stop him, but Kent is saying something, his tone urgent so Joe looks at him, tries to focus on his words and not the highly distracting anal stimulation. “What do you want, Joe?”

“For you to fuck me,” Joe says, and he suspects that some tiny, distant part of himself is embarrassed by the words coming out of his mouth, about his desire, but if anything he’s grateful for whatever it is that’s allowing him this truth, this freedom. “I want you to fuck me.”

 

For a moment Emerson literally cannot comprehend what Joe is saying; he thinks he must have misheard him over the continuous throbbing of the techno beat which doesn’t even sound like music anymore to him. Then Joe says it again. Joe is reaching for him. Emerson’s hand against Joe’s chest has no strength in it to resist. His heart feels full to bursting. He knows it can’t be real, that all his dreams could come true like this, that Joe could really want him, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Joe wants him now. He can have this now. He watches his own fingers slide towards the buttons of Joe’s shirt. He’s not really thinking about anything except for the sensation of damp silk against his fingers, damp with Joe’s sweat because the club is hot and Joe is hotter, his skin burning up and slick beneath Emerson’s fingers.

It’s that which jolts him out his euphoria, that which brings reality ripping and tearing and destroying all his happiness. If Emerson needed any more proof that Joe’s not himself, that Joe’s compromised, it’s that, because Joe would never be able to be able to ignore the fact that his shirt was less than spotlessly clean.

Of course Joe would never kiss him, would never, ever say those words to Emerson if he were in his right mind. Emerson’s a fucking idiot for even letting himself be sucked in.

He feels winded. He feels like something ripped a fucking great hole in his chest, but Joe’s still looking at him as if he fucking hung the moon, so Emerson takes a deep breath and a deliberate step back, then another, because he can’t be so close to Joe’s heat, Joe’s musk, Joe’s hands. “No, sir,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t break.

“Emerson?” Joe’s reaching for him.

“We have to go. Now.” There’s a voice, no, not a voice, it’s in his mind, worming itself into his thoughts, its meaning is clear. _Stay_ , it says, _stay and Joe’s yours, yours forever. All you have to do is stay. Turn to him now, he’s yours, he’ll give himself over to you, it’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? Just the two of you. You can have that._

And Emerson can’t help it, he looks at Joe and somehow Joe’s moved closer again. He’s looking at Emerson as though he’s the only person in the world, his eyes burning. He’s so close, the heat fairly radiating off him, enveloping Emerson.

Emerson wavers. He tries to be a good person, to be worthy of his mum and Erica’s love, to be a decent police officer, to impress Skip and the Boss, but he’s not really, is he? He tries to shove it deep down inside him, but there’s a darkness inside him, an ugliness, and he feels it now, the weakness. The temptation to pull Joe to him, to sink down on the floor and do what Joe’s asked of him, to make Joe his is nearly overwhelming (they’re both under the influence of something, Emerson couldn’t be blamed).

It takes every ounce of strength Emerson has to resist that temptation. For a moment he’s not sure he can, and then, unbidden, he hears Joe’s voice, years ago now but not a single syllable, not a single intonation, not a single emotion Emerson felt then has been forgotten: _out of everyone, I really wish it hadn’t been you._

He can’t betray Joe again. “You’re not yourself,” he says. His voice cracks and he clears his throat of the lump that’s lodged there. “You don’t want this.”

“Of course I am. Emerson, don’t be—”

“Look at your shirt.”

Joe looks down at himself, his brow creasing. “I don’t—”

“It’s not clean.”

Joe continues to stare down at himself for long enough that Emerson starts to despair. If he can’t persuade Joe to leave he’s going to have to call Miles. He should have done it already; he shouldn’t have listened to Joe. He hadn’t realised—he thought he’d been roofied by some perv, not whatever the fuck this new horror is.

Emerson’s just fumbling for his phone when Joe lifts his head. He’s looking worried at least, if not the freak out Emerson was hoping for—it’s progress. “We need to get you out of here,” he says. “Get you a clean shirt.”

Joe’s expression turns determined. “Got to get out of this shirt,” he says and promptly starts unbuttoning it.

Emerson starts forward and covers Joe’s hands with his own, stilling them. “Not here.” Joe looks up at him through his eyelashes, and god, that look. Emerson’s been determinedly ignoring his own arousal, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to fuck, but it’s getting harder. He can feel his resistance weakening the longer he’s here. It’s suffocating. “We need to get you home.”

“Home,” Joe purrs, agreeable suddenly. He pulls one hand from Emerson’s grasp. He reaches out and wraps one of Emerson’s wayward curls around his fingers and pulls gently, watching raptly as it slides through his fingers. When he goes to do it again Emerson grabs his hand. Joe’s eyes focus on Emerson again, and he smiles, one of his rare, truly happy smiles, the ones that make Emerson feel like he’d do anything, anything at all to make Joe smile like that just for him, and now he is, and it’s so wrong Emerson wants to scream. “Emerson,” Joe says, suddenly, sunnily. “Em. You look after me.”

“Always,” Emerson says, and it’s the most important promise he’s ever made and maybe this thing, whatever it is, can tell that because the compulsion seems to lose intensity, not gone, but as though its focus has shifted, as though it, whatever it is, has lost interest.

He finds the exit easily enough after that, towing Joe along by the hand, not that he needs to. Joe’s sticking close to him now. Joe’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, and that’s a sensitive spot for him, and he’s not immune to it now, or the fact that it’s Joe doing it, but the sensation isn’t as intense now. It’s just Joe.

Emerson finds the keys to Joe’s Audi in his coat pocket. He bundles Joe into the back seat and buckles his seatbelt around him, because Joe’s clearly in no state to. His eyes follow Emerson’s intently, but he’s clasped his hands together tightly, the knuckles white, and Emerson knows it’s to stop himself reaching out for Emerson. Emerson can only assume the thing still has a grip on him.

Emerson doesn’t know what else to do except get Joe far away from it. He pulls away from the kerb with a squeal of tyres, and can’t help glancing in the mirror, half expecting Joe to be looking disapprovingly at him, but Joe’s staring at his hands now. At least he’s no longer staring at Emerson. Hopefully it’s wearing off.

He calls Skip and explains the situation as he speeds through late night traffic as quickly as he dares. Miles reacts about as well as could be expected: _great, another supernatural shitshow, it’s always us poor bastards gotta clean it up._ Miles tells him to take Joe home and keep an eye on him and makes Emerson promise to get him to A &E if Chandler doesn’t get better. It’s an easy promise to make.

 

 

He gives in after two hours of lying in bed—alone, yet helplessly aware of every little sound Kent makes as he moves around Joe’s apartment. Two hours of exercising heroic self-discipline by not calling Kent into his room and begging him to suck him or fuck him or something, anything. Five cold showers, five failed attempts to masturbate, and Joe’s ready to admit defeat and take a bunch of sleeping pills, just to get some relief, much as he hates the idea of giving up control, giving in to his weakness. He fumbles to put his watch back on the bedside table but overbalances and manages to knock the lamp over. It makes a clatter as it goes but doesn’t break. He stares at it as it rolls back and forth on its round base until inertia wins out.

There’s a gasp from the doorway. Kent’s standing there, apparently frozen to the spot, one hand clenched on the doorframe. “Sir…” Kent says and then stops, his mouth slightly parted. A flush is creeping up his neck. Joe watches it reach his cheekbones, staining them red. He wants to put his mouth on Kent’s neck, wants to lick and kiss and bite the same path, to taste that blush. He must be deluded as well as desperate because it looks like Kent’s having similar thoughts about him. Joe watches Kent’s eyes drift downwards and then widen. He licks his lips as if unconsciously and Joe’s well aware of the debauched and obscene picture he makes, naked, his cock glistening with antibacterial lubricant, and even through the haze of lust, his fingers twitch to cover himself, because for the life of him he can’t open his mouth and tell Kent to leave, to get out, like he knows he should, but even a sheet over him is too much stimulation. All he can do is stare mutely at the man in the doorway. His work colleague, his subordinate, a man a dozen years his junior who’s been harbouring a crush on him for years; he can’t take advantage of him. He won’t. _He won’t._

He makes himself sit up, to draw his knees up and fold his arms over them in ridiculous and no doubt futile attempt to cover himself. This seems to break Kent’s absorption. He takes several steps into the room and now he’s close enough that Joe could reach out, tug him down on to the bed. He tightens his arms around his knees and rests his feverish forehead on them.

“You can’t go on like this,” Kent’s voice above him says gently.

“I know that,” Joe snaps. He looks up and grimaces apologetically. Kent doesn’t deserve to be yelled at because Joe can’t control himself.

Kent ducks his head and smiles. He takes another step forward and now he’s sinking down to sit beside Joe, not touching him but close enough that Joe can smell him, smell old sweat and the remnants of his cologne and the musk of his arousal.

“Look, I have an idea. Maybe you just need to flush it out of your system.”

“Drink lots of water, you mean?”

“No, I mean…” Kent makes an awkward, but unmistakable gesture with his loosely curled fist. Despite the fever that’s burning him up, Joe feels himself blush again.

“You think I haven’t already tried that?”

“Sorry.”

“I can't. It doesn't work.”

“Maybe you were trying too hard, or you were too stressed.”

Joe stares at him incredulously. “Do you think so?”

“Or maybe it's as simple as it needs to be someone else.”

Oh god. Joe buries his face in his hands.

Kent's hand is cold against his hot skin as he curls his fingers around Joe’s own and pulls them gently but insistently away from his face. The way he’s holding them reminds Joe of the club, of Kent coming and getting him. Saving him.

“Let me help you.”

“It wouldn't be appropriate.”

“Sir with all due respect, nothing about tonight has been appropriate, and none of it is your fault. We just have to get through it.”

Joe stares at their joined hands. “You shouldn't have to—”

“Sir... Joe,” Kent says, and Joe can’t find it in himself to reprimand him for his informality. It would be beyond ridiculous under these circumstances. Kent clears his throat and Joe looks up and meets Kent’s wide, guileless eyes. He can’t look away. “I think you know that this wouldn't be a hardship for me,” Kent says steadily. “The opposite, in fact.”

Joe’s in awe of Kent’s bravery. That he would admit something so personal, something that could get him transferred, if Joe were so inclined. Not to mention the potential for humiliation, if Joe, his boss, reacted badly

If Joe thought his self-control was good before, now it’s superhuman. It’s taking everything he’s got not to reach out, to accept Kent’s offer, to relieve this ache. “I can’t allow you to,” he says, and Kent flinches. He raises his chin as though he’s expecting a blow and Joe can’t leave it there, leave Kent thinking god knows what. “If circumstances were different…” He trails off because he doesn’t know, does he?

If circumstances were different. If there weren’t a dozen reasons why they shouldn’t. If Kent could manage his expectations about what a relationship with Joe would entail. If Joe could, even.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kent says and presses his lips together firmly. He pulls his hands from Joe’s grasp and Joe feels the loss of his touch immediately. He braces himself for Kent to get up and leave, because that would be the safest, wouldn’t it? Instead, he feels Kent’s hands on his knees, sliding slowly inwards, and Joe can’t stop himself, he lets his legs fall apart at Kent’s gentle urging, lets Kent stare at his achingly rigid cock curving out from his stomach. “That’s right, sir,” Kent says approvingly.

“Emerson,” Joe says, because he can’t bring himself to call him Kent, not now.

“Joe,” Emerson says, and Joe holds his breath as Emerson leans forward and then Emerson is taking his cock in his mouth, Emerson is sucking his cock and the relief of it is almost as powerful a sensation as the arousal that seems to have finally found an outlet. He doesn’t last long after that. He tries to warn Emerson, but Emerson just hums around his cock and then he’s coming and coming and after a few seconds Emerson pulls off and strokes him through his last few pulses.

“Been a while, has it, sir?” Emerson says teasingly. A smile lurks around the corners of his mouth.

“You could say that.”

“How do you feel?”

Joe aches. He’s exhausted. He just wants to sleep for at least eight uninterrupted hours, after he’s showered and changed the sheets of course. The urge to scrub himself thoroughly is creeping in already, which is actually a relief under the circumstances. But Emerson’s still sitting there. Emerson hasn’t got off. Joe may not do this very often, but he understands basic courtesy. He reaches over towards Emerson’s lap.

“No, sir,” Emerson says simply.

Joe freezes, then realises his hand is poised awkwardly in the air and puts it down. “No?” he says. God, was he that mistaken? Had Emerson not wanted him after all? What has he done?

Emerson hasn’t moved.

Joe forces himself to ask. “Why are you still here, if you don’t want...?”

“I do want,” Emerson says, so fervently that Joe relaxes, and he can’t help the small smile that escapes him. Emerson grins back. “Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever you want to, when you’re yourself again.”

“I’m fine now.” Joe wonders who he’s really trying to convince.

“Neither of us can know that for sure.”

“Then—”

“I’m staying in case this isn’t over,” Emerson says firmly. “In case you need me again.”

“You can’t just sit there all night.”

“I don’t intend to. With your permission, I’ll have a shower and then sleep next to you. Just as a precaution.”

Joe manages to refrain from flinching but something of his instinctive withdrawal must show in his face because Emerson’s smile fades and his eyes drop. “Or I can sleep on the sofa, if you prefer.” Emerson shifts abruptly and is standing awkwardly by the bed before Joe can reach out to stop him.

“I’m just not used to… company,” Joe admits, and he hates this, hates exposing himself like this, but he’s rewarded for his effort when Emerson looks up at him again and nods. Emerson looks like he doesn’t know what to do now though, and that makes both of them. Joe’s need to get clean is starting to make it hard to focus though, so everything else will have to wait. He gestures towards the en suite. “I’m just going to….”

“I’ll be here.”

Joe nods and goes to take a shower. He spends a long time scrubbing himself all over till he finally feels that the contamination is completely gone, and then spends several minutes allowing the spray to beat down on his shoulder muscles, feeling them gradually loosen, his mind starting to calm, exhaustion creeping back in.

He cleans his teeth and then, after a moment’s thought, gets out a new toothbrush and a fresh towel and set them on the counter. He wraps the towel around himself as a nod towards modesty before he goes back into the bedroom to get his pyjamas. He stops in the doorway and looks around in wonder.

Emerson’s changed the linen. The lamp is back in its place and there’s a fresh bottle of water set on a coaster. Even his watch and phone are carefully aligned beside each other within easy reach of the bed. Joe has to smile when he sees Emerson’s watch and phone set out exactly like his on the opposite bedside table.

Emerson’s fast asleep on top of the covers. Joe sinks down beside him and brushes the lock of hair that’s fallen over his eye back into place.

Joe’s thinking clearly now. Possibly more clearly than he has done in a long time. Tonight’s events have forced him to acknowledge what he’s been ignoring (despite less than subtle hints from Miles) for years.

Emerson’s feelings for him.

Joe’s had his reasons. Propriety. Regulations. Or, more truthfully, fear. Fear of failure, fear of being seen as a freak. Fear of finding someone and then losing them. Again.

But here is someone whom he trusts, who he finds attractive, and who, miraculously, _gets_ him and wants to be with him anyway. Something he never believed he could have. He’d be a fool to not at least give it a try. Give them a try.

He’s not a fool.

Resolved, he leans over and give Emerson’s shoulder a gentle shake. Emerson’s eyes pop open. “Sir!” he says and sits up sharply. He rubs his eyes. “My turn?”

His turn? Oh, for the shower. Emerson’s already getting up, moving towards the en suite.

“Emerson?” he says, and Emerson stops and turns, his eyes somewhere near the floor.

“Come to bed after,” he says. Emerson’s eyes fly to his, wide and startled. Taking a deep breath, Joe drops his towel and slides under the covers.

For a moment Emerson looks like he’s forgotten to breathe. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Emerson ducks his head, blinking rapidly and starts towards the door. He picks up Joe’s towel on his way past, even though Joe had been determined to ignore it, and for some reason that simple consideration convinces Joe of the rightness of his decision more than all his previous rationalisations.

 

For the first time, lying in bed listening to the sound of another person moving around in Joe’s bathroom is a source of comfort rather than stress, and he’s drowsing comfortably when there’s a draft of air as the comforter is lifted. He forces his eyes open to see Emerson, naked and clean-smelling and looking self-conscious, just reaching over to turn off the lamp.

Joe’s never actually just slept with someone before, so he’s not sure what’s expected but when Emerson moves closer, he raises his arm in invitation. Emerson slides under it and moulds his body along Joe’s side. He rests his head on Joe’s chest and wraps an arm around his waist and, after a long moment where they just breathe together in the darkness, Emerson shifts one leg forward, knee bent so that it rests casually across Joe’s thigh, precariously close to Joe’s groin. “All right?” he asks.

“Fine,” he says, and he’s only a little surprised to find he means it. He’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep like that, even as tired as he is, but Emerson doesn’t say or do anything else, and Joe’s eyes drift shut of their own accord. When he next wakes it’s to the sound of his phone buzzing. Light’s creeping through the edges of the blinds and work is calling but in the kitchen the kettle just clicked off the boil and Joe can hear Emerson singing softly to himself and he thinks that this feeling in his chest might actually be happiness.


End file.
